Freedom And Its Friends
by shockin'blueeyes
Summary: Freedom: every person has a different definition for it, and Draco Malfoy might have just founded his. It's curious what you can find while sitting on a bench in your garden... R


Written for the Hogwarts Online Forum, for the thread Madam Hooch's Quidditch's Tryouts, with the theme Prison Break and the prompts "There are demon's inside _and _outside these walls...", Shadows, dancing lights, Blood Curdling howl.

Hope you enjoy, I found it extremely difficult to write, but I think it turned out alright...

Don't forget to review!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, sadly...

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Freedom, like justice, is relative. What is justice to one person might not be justice for another one, and what one would consider freedom is in fact a prison for others.

The concept of freedom is different for each person, maybe the same in the basics, but with infinite differences that adapt to the person's needs, beliefs and habits, making the definition of freedom unique. And while some people would consider uniqueness something to boast about, I don't think being unique makes you special or better than others. It just makes you alone.

Since the day I was born, I was raised to think myself better than others, more rich, more pure-blooded, more intelligent, and more loyal to a snake of a man that died at the hands of a toddler…

I used to think how easy life was, how incredibly gifted I was, and how incredibly daft were the others, including Potty Potter and his faithful sidekicks the Weasel and the Mudblood Granger. I was convinced some day I'd own everything my father had and I would live without working, living the big life, just like my father had. How very wrong I was.

I don't blame my parents for putting up that thick wall between the truth and the rest of the world – it's painful to think that I was included in _the rest_ – because the truth was so extreme I don't think I would have turned out how I've turned out. Even if they weren't doing it for me, but for the appearances, I appreciate their efforts. At least during a part of my life I lived how I was supposed to, not like I'm living right now. Locked up in my own childhood house, always so elegant and rich, host of the best parties in the Wizarding world, now dark and lugubrious, full of shadows lurking in the previously lit corners.

I am trapped within the tall hedges of the garden; the now unkempt garden, where the weeds grow freely. If this is a metaphor of the Wizarding world, were the weeds are the mudbloods and the red roses – my mother's passion – are the purebloods, we're clearly doing something wrong, because there isn't one single fucking rose left. They're all dead because my mother no longer has the time or strength to take care of them and mother them like she never mothered me. She's too busy trying to keep my family together and surviving through this war.

So here I am now, sitting in a stone bench in the dark, the dancing lights coming from the sitting room the only thing that breaks through the thick dark veil of night. And I'm sitting here because I can't bare to go into my own bloody house and lock myself in my room because I can still hear the occasional blood curling howl the man in the cellar gives. It also doesn't help that the Lovegood girl is also down there, having been brought yesterday. She is a fucking year younger than me. She is fucking sixteen, for Merlin's sake! I might be a lot of things, but I'm not sure one of them is merciless, and while I'm okay with fighting against adults who can defend themselves, how am I supposed to battle someone who isn't even and adult yet? Who hasn't even had a chance to live?

Now that I think about it, the latter description also applies to me. I haven't had a chance to live. I am seventeen; I should be worrying about exams and girls, not about being murdered in my sleep by my psychotic aunt and about my falling head first in the pit I have caved for myself.

I don't want to be unique anymore. I don't want to be a thing I no longer believe in, I don't want to die for something I don't support any longer. Looking at the hedges of the manor, I realise it wouldn't be too difficult to blast one apart and make a run for it, go hide myself somewhere and re-emerge when Potter saves the world once more. Oh, yes, I don't think the Dark Lord, or whatever he fancies to be called now, will win. He has lost before, and he will loose again. Evil always looses, and while a few months before I still believed I was in the good side, now I realise that somebody that kills people for pleasure isn't remotely good.

So here I sit, staring at the hedge of my garden, surrounded by my father peacocks, who like my father and my family's name, have lost their purity and majestic bearing, and wonder what would happen if I take my wand out now and blast apart a portion of hedge. Would it set off some kind of alarm? Would I be blown into smithereens before I arrive to the main road?

Sighing, I get up and close the pocket of my cloak. Who am I trying to kid? What am I trying to run from? There are demon's inside and outside these walls, there are demons everywhere, and no matter how many hedges I blast apart, there will always be more. I am not brave, or courageous, or bold, I'm a fucking coward and I will go to any lengths to achieve what I want. Sadly, what I want is not being blasted to smithereens, what I want is to live. So, sighing again, I turn around and head back to the manor.

Freedom is relative, and everybody has a different one, an unique one, they just have to find the definition for it.

I believe I just found mine, and it's horribly close to the one of the people in the cellar: nonexistent.

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